


this cruel world

by pendules



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-23
Updated: 2011-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:29:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendules/pseuds/pendules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are roommates at college in New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this cruel world

Xabi's only been in New York for three weeks, but he's already chosen his favourite season. Or, more appropriately, his favourite time _between_ seasons. It's perfect: not too hot, not too cool, and he likes the rain well enough (coming from the north of Spain), but he thinks he prefers this to spring: the slightly burnt-out effect of the sun and the wind, the breezes that are warm but can make you shiver as it blows through your hair and across your face. Summer is nice but it's too intense, too blatant, bold and Xabi's always been fond of reserve. Autumn hints of the coming cold (Xabi thinks that's the worst thing about this place), dreadful, reeking of death and decay. Between them, there is peace. (He thinks: only artists can think like this, can encapsulate time and place into words, into pictures.)

Maybe he simply likes the colour of the leaves sprinkled on concrete and grass. Which is why his curtains (the ones he took care in choosing) are rusty brown and look red when the light filters through the window in the morning.

Later when he thinks about it, all he'll remember are the burgundy curtains.

(Maybe he thought it would be easy to fade into that colour, that it would blur everything into cloud-like brown, like particles diffusing into some kind of harmony.)

 

Steven will call it girly (like he will his hair ( _too silky to be a bloke's_ )], and the books he reads ( _A Separate Peace? What a fucking bore_ ], and the way he speaks, so carefully and gently ( _what are you, like Shakespeare?_ )).

Xabi will say, "What? It isn't even crimson or God forbid, magenta."

"What?" Disinterest.

"Pink," he says simply.

"How do you know these things?"

He'll want to say: _because I'm an artist._

Will bite his tongue instead. And give up. (He'll foresee that he'll be doing this a lot with Steven.)

 

He meets him two weeks into the semester, just as he was starting to get used to solitude. He's sitting in a chair with his back to the open window reading _Secrets of the Greats: A View of Renaissance Artists_ when the door opens and—

He's speaking on the phone (doesn't give Xabi any chance to try to decipher how his voice would sound, like he does with basically everyone; his accent is heavy, obviously English, but the voice itself, it's surprisingly small) and trying to manoeuvre what seems to be at least ten suitcases through the small door frame. His skin's a few shades lighter than Xabi's but obviously a bit sun burnt too; his eyes are small, squinty and grey; his hair's that kind of brown that's not too brown but lighter (it reminds him of a hamster he had when he was younger and he has to fight the urge to laugh for a second, then he remembers the hamster dying and he feels a lump in his throat). He's wearing (obviously designer) jeans, a black shirt, and leather jacket. All the obvious signs of someone trying to appear sophisticated, trying just a little too hard. What he's saying further proves that.

"How can you be missing me? I haven't been gone a day yet."

"—"

"I've just arrived. I can't tell you when I'll be coming back."

"—"

"I know, I know, love. We have unfinished business." Grins at that. (Xabi feels sick all of a sudden.)

"—"

"Okay, bye then. See ya later."

Finally accomplishes his task of piling all his luggage next to the bed and closes the door. Turns to Xabi who instantly feels too exposed (and who's obviously thinking that his prior fears about roommates were well placed). Smiles, extends a hand.

"Hey, mate."

"...hi."

"I'm Steven, Steven Gerrard."

"Uh... Xabi, Xabi Alonso." (Xabi, Xabi doesn't have a problem with articulacy when faced with people he respects, looks up to or even is intimidated by (he's had dinner with the President of the Government of Spain, for God's sake). It's people like this, people he doesn't know what to expect from, people who seem instantly unlikable, people like Steven Gerrard and his utter fakery he gets unnerved by.)

Thinks that this is obviously some spoiled, rich kid who thinks that everyone who's not English or of some high social status is basically dirt. And maybe this, being here, isn't, wouldn't be as perfect as he's imagined.

He expects a question like: How do you spell that? Or what's that? Is that like Italian?

"So where are from, Xabi?" (Pronounces it correctly and Xabi's taken aback.)

"Spain."

"Oh, really? You don't look Spanish."

A pause.

"But yeah, you do have the accent, I suppose."

Grins that megawatt grin, one that seriously doesn't suit him, makes his features look ugly and disfigured even, like a grimace. Continues.

"I'm from—"

"England, yes."

"Yeah."

"So why are you here—what is it?—two weeks late?"

"I was in Prague, on vacation. With the family, you know."

 _Yeah, I do know. You probably have a private yacht, or no, you own a hotel there, or an entire beach._ (Wonders if people can actually _buy_ beaches.)

"But my father called the President and everything's okay now."

 _Of course he did._

"So I suppose we're rooming together then."

"Yeah, I guess so..."

"Okay, then."

They don't say anything else like, _What are you studying? Or why, why, why in the world are you here, time zones and continents and oceans away from home? And where is home, to you? What's it like?_ And—

Maybe they're both thinking they'll save this conversation for some other time, because obviously, _obviously_ they'll have nothing else to talk about; what one has to say will be of absolutely no interest to the other; so they'll just occupy time with random, trivial things. (Wonders what will happen when they run out and how long will this last? This is the strange yet completely overwhelming thing about meeting new people, about being forced to interact with said people on a day to day basis and find some type of routine or order to things, and events, and _life._ The sense of 'this can change my life drastically and I don't even know it yet.') Or this is what Xabi's thinking. Xabi, Xabi thinks he has this guy figured out. Steven, Steven doesn't care, simply. Doesn't even care to speculate. He's always been a 'leap before you look' kind of guy. Doesn't think too much into things. The best way to figuring something out is to plunge right into it, headfirst. He's sure he'll know everything about this guy in time. This is why he asks no questions and simply takes to unpacking and leaves the room with a mumbled _going to check out campus._ Xabi half-expects a _don't wait up_ with a wink. Charming bastard. He doesn't get it and he doesn't, doesn't wait up.

 

Xabi sits in his Study of Contemporary Art class the following morning. Twirls a pencil in his fingers (his notes abandoned) and thinks. Thinks about art, what an artist truly is: is it someone who observes life and is perceptive enough to read the emotion and translate said emotion, into words, into paint and canvas, into marble and clay or is it someone who's learnt how to live, has lived and felt everything for themselves and pure emotion needs no translation. The emotion is the art. The art is the emotion. Wonders which he is.

His thoughts turn by some force of nature to the Englishman most likely still sleeping in his room (doesn't even bother correcting it to _**our** room_ ). He had thought of waking him but decided on one more day of detachment and blissful ignorance. Thinks of (dreads) when they'll be 'formal' roommates; wonders if he'll ever use the word 'friend' to describe him. Dismisses it. That'd mean he would _always_ have to wake him.

 

Steven, though, is currently seated in the Dean's office. An hour late, at the most.

"You're late."

"Yeah. Sorry." Shrugs it off.

"Let it be the last time, please." He makes that 'hmph' sound, the one he's always related to old, disapproving people. Doesn't even turn away to roll his eyes; thinks instead _but you can't do anything about it, can you?_

"So. Steven." Adjusts his glasses and clasps his hands on the desk.

"Yeah?"

"This isn't the first time I've encountered a student in your position and it won't be the last if my luck remains the same."

A pause.

"If it were up to me, you'd never see the inside of this establishment."

 _Oh, I'm so hurt._

"But your father has been kind enough to provide us with much needed funding while you are here and he also seems to have acquaintances in high places."

Clears his throat.

 _Can I go now?_

Douglas leans forward, in what he must think is a threatening gesture. Steven's not much more than amused.

"But, I assure you, if you put one toe out of line, I'll personally—"

The phone on his desk rings then.

"Well, you get my point, boy. You can go."

 _Of course, sir._

Mock salutes him and strides out the door.

Looks back as it closes and glances at the gold letters fixed to the wood:

 _Professor R. Douglas  
Dean of_ \- the 'Students' missing, obviously pen-knifed off (there's a dent in the wood) -

 _fill in the blanks_

Steven can, easily.

Thinks that he's a sorry man indeed.

 

They have a proper conversation a week later. They've both been in and out, mostly Steven, and they're finally alone, together. Xabi ignores him, tries to use a book as a shield (he's good at that).

Steven's bored. Paces up and down a few times then half-throws himself onto his bed. Stretches out, rests his hands behind his head, looks across at Xabi.

"Why do you read so much?"

No answer.

He sits up then and looks at him intently.

"I thought you were an Art student."

And Xabi wants to say, _Some people actually have to work for what they want and I haven't actually drawn anything in months; it doesn't work like that and_ \- (ignores the fact that it'll most likely be completely wasted on him) -

"You can't have Art without history, without a story (he brandishes the book - like a weapon), because what Art does is capture history and time."

"So... what's _your_ story then?"

Xabi thinks how simple it was to get right back to this.

So that's how he ends up telling him. Everything. Doesn't care what he thinks of it. (He asked, didn't he?)

 

"So, you got a scholarship to wherever you wanted?"

A nod.

"Wow. You must be good."

Xabi doesn't say anything.

"So, why here? I mean, you could've gone to England or something?"

Xabi raises an eyebrow at him.

"Why are _you_ here?"

"My parents thought I needed a little change in scenery... to sort me out." A sarcastic laugh.

"Law school's hard, you know."

"Yeah, of course I do. Exactly why I don't want to do it."

Xabi, Xabi thinks afterwards how curious it is, how cruel the world is. That someone like himself with all the ambition in the world could have almost negligible opportunities and how lucky he is to be here, that there are so many others who aren't this lucky.

And then there's Steven with all the opportunities you can imagine... and it just isn't right.

He'll feel sorry and he'll hate himself, but he won't do anything. Because he can't. He just can't.

 

He's forced to lay down some rules two weeks after that. When he finds Steven and some blonde girl in his bed.

She blushes furiously as he asks her as politely as he can to leave and when she's gone, he turns on Steven.

Takes all of his willpower not to ask him just what the fuck he thinks he's doing.

"Sorry, mate... I— Mine wasn't made, you see." Gestures to his bed.

"And that makes it better how?"

"We weren't doing anything..."

"Okay, I thought some of this stuff was understood, but apparently not."

"What?"

Xabi ignores him.

"Rule number one: you're not to bring any of that stuff in here. I won't tell anyone, but just leave me out of it."

"What? What stuff?"

"You know what I mean. I don't think your pupils have been normal since you got here. I'm not stupid, you know."

"Fine."

"And rule number two: no girls."

"Come on, she's just a friend."

"Friend? Sure, Steven."

"No one calls me that, you know."

"What? Steven? But that's your name, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but—"

Xabi wants to say: _**I'm** not your friend._

Instead he interrupts him with, "It doesn't matter, okay? Just don't screw up, if this is going to work."

 

(He'll have a dream that night. He'll dream of Steven asking him, _What about you, Xabi, do you have any friends?_ And Xabi will say, _My life is of no concern to you._

He'll wake up in the morning and in between showering and changing and hurrying from the dorm, he'll think that it isn't that easy, the world isn't that easy. And some people can delude themselves, but sometime, somewhere, they'll see.)

 

They don't talk to each other much for weeks after that.

 

Xabi meets a girl two months into the semester. Well, not really meets her. He's seen her around; she's in a couple of his classes. And they literally 'bump' into each other in the library and somehow, before Xabi can even register it, between proclamations of clumsiness and shy giggling and comments on classes, teachers, etc., they end up making plans for coffee.

Xabi likes her. She's smart, different. The girls he grew up with were friendly enough, but their lives were never his life; they were always on different paths, which is why he's never had a proper relationship. He wanted, no, _needed_ to get out, and didn't want anything else that would possibly keep him there.

(He does miss home, though. Sometimes. Maybe, all the time. Notices the differences everywhere and it can be hard, sometimes, to adapt. But he's confident he can and he knows he must.

Maybe, the fact that he knows he has to be alone, do this alone, makes it easier. (Makes it harder.)

 

Steven will ask him, _How do we ever know what we have to do?_

And he'll say he knows he has to do this. He just knows.)

 

"Who's the girl?"

"What?"

"The girl. I've seen you with her." A smirk.

"She's a friend. And I actually mean that."

"You know, you enforced your rules. I think it's time for me to make some of my own."

"What?"

'Okay...rule number one: you need to get out more.'

"Oh, shut up."

"So, what have you and this girl done?"

"She has a name, you know."

"Really? What?"

"Lily."

"So, what have you done?"

"Just went out - dinner, movies..."

"So, you two haven't—"

"No," and it's the truth. After that night, it won't be though.

 

It goes well for a while, until it doesn't.

 

He feels the need for alcohol for the first time since he's gotten here, the first time _ever_ , actually. He's just decided to get off his ass and head down to a bar when he gets a phone call.

 _He's drunk... I don't think he should be going anywhere alone in this state. Could you—?_

Curses Steven silently. He'll be going to a bar, yes, but he'll have to save the drunken escapades for some other time.

 

"Why are you here...? I thought you hated me."

"I don't hate you, Steven."

"Well, do you like me, then? Do you like anyone?"

"Steven..."

 _Just, shut up. Please._

Drags him down onto the pavement. They wait for a cab, Steven finally regaining his own footing and awareness, and Xabi craving slightly for the smell on his breath (everywhere, actually). Steven tilts his head slightly so that the light from the streetlight falls on his face and Xabi squints at the bruise around his left eye.

"Got into a fight?"

"Haha. No, not really. Frank's just a fucking idiot who can't take a joke."

"Well, maybe, you shouldn't go around coming onto everyone's girlfriends, or just don't do it in front of them."

Steven laughs loudly at that, the sound echoing into the still night.

He asks, "What about _your_ girl, then?"

Xabi doesn't say anything.

 

He helps him through the door and turns to close it, but instead of Steven falling onto his bed with instantaneous snoring as he'd predicted (hoped) he tilts forward slightly, pinning Xabi to the door, their faces almost touching. He grabs Steven's arm and Steven runs a hand down his face, touches their foreheads together, overcoming every inch of space. For a second, Xabi's intoxicated. He shakes it away, though, and slides out from between Steven and the door.

Steps away. Steven turns to face him.

"I— We..."

He doesn't know how it happens (will never know), but the next second Steven's mouth is on his and he lets him, lets him in, in a way he never has anyone else.

 

He gets up at three, tiptoes around, puts his clothes back on and he opens the window and sits on the carpet in front of it and puts pencil to paper and draws like he hasn't in months. (It just flows, flows like no paragraphs can before his eyes or through his mind, flows instead like Steven's kisses along his neck and strokes down the long stretch of his back, uncharacteristically gentle.) He doesn't leave until the sun has risen and he hides it under his bed like boys do with porn or drugs or their sisters' dolls that they like playing with.

 

He gets back that afternoon and he can't look at him, he just can't (because he's never been able to acknowledge his mistakes, because it would kill him, it would).

"Xabi..."

"Why do you want this, Steven?" His voice is detached, cold even.

"I don't know."

"Well, why do you think?"

"I— I have no idea who you are. But I feel I should be sorry for you. I want to know why."

"You could ask." Barely a whisper.

"But you won't tell."

"I have already."

"You can't." Shakes his head.

"We can't."

"You're not religious, are you?" It isn't a question, not really.

 _I stopped believing when I was ten and learnt to think for myself._

"No. What about you?"

"I grew up in a house where everyone believed in something else."

He notices Xabi's significant look and continues quickly.

"No, not money. Reputation and status and order...and perfection, basically."

 _And if you didn't believe in that, they sent you halfway around the world._

"We still can't."

 

( _I'm sorry for you too._ )

 

He'll look at him the next day. Just look at him. And he'll say, start to say—

"Xabi, I—"

Xabi barely looks up from his work and says, "No, Steven. You don't."

 

It doesn't work out in the way he plans though, he'll realise. A week later and this time they're both drunk by some strange turn of affairs. Steven will insult his curtains. Xabi will insult his accent. And they'll fuck on top of his neat, white sheets and Xabi'll kick him out of his bed at one in the morning, saying he needs to sleep. He has class tomorrow.

 

He'll remember his birthday as the day he leaves, disappears most aptly. (His mother calls him and he laughs and asks about his brothers and says the compulsory _I miss you too_ when required.) When he looks back on it he would like to say that he cared, but he didn't, not really. He'll think that that's what he does; he demeans people, has these images of disappointment and let-down in his head regarding everyone he meets so that he wouldn't trust them. (Doesn't want to trust them.) Wouldn't let them in. He gives up on them before they have a chance, before he gives them a chance. That's who he is; that's who he's always been.

 

(He'll wonder what is worse: himself and his detachment; the way he observes and doesn't touch or bring himself to feel; the way he captures things wholly from the outsider's perspective; his art, a reflection of what he perceives and doesn't really _know_ ; or Steven and the way he gives himself away; makes himself feel things because he's been thought not to; lets himself learn from experience; lets himself be, and live, and—

Love. Furiously, not theoretically. Bold, like Xabi never is. And he wonders if this means he can never love. Or if love is whatever you make it, whatever you can do with, mould it into, like clay or marble or ivory features.)

 

Steven leaves, and he returns. Xabi doesn't know if he should be relieved or disappointed. If it's a sign of weakness on his part, of still being controlled when he shouldn't be, shouldn't be, or strength, to be brave enough to do what he would hate in time to come, would maybe die accomplishing (or just succeed in killing his identity).

He finds him sitting on the stone steps outside the library, apparently ignoring the cold, and drops down on the same step as him, but with the absence of closeness so noticeable, both physical and - well, something else, what isn't physical.

He starts talking then, in a way he never has. Says, "When I was younger, I didn't know which day my father would lose his job and there'd no longer be any food on the table or I'd have to give up school. It didn't, but it could've, any day. And I hated it, I hated that place and I had to get away. I thought I could leave it behind, but you never can. But you can never go back either. The world is cruel and sometimes you have to be too."

Steven says, "But I did, I did go back." And then in the plainest voice, "I got a phone call the morning I left. Do you know what it was about? It was my dad, saying that mum's sick and she only has three months left. Three fucking months. And do you know what he said, what they both said when I left? _Don't screw up._ Not 'good luck' or 'we'll miss you.' But _don't screw up._ "

Xabi closes his eyes and kisses him then. Thinks that the hardest thing in the world is to love something and hate it too.

 

Steven will lie in his arms and he'll press his thumb against the base of his spine, his mouth against the back of his neck, a gentle, warm pressure, like an _I'm sorry_ , and Steven's bristly hair will tickle his nose and they'll just stay like that, perfectly still.

He'll find him sitting on the carpet when he wakes up, leaning against the bed, a sketchpad propped against the wall and he'll squint at it and then press a kiss against Xabi's cheek as he slides down next to him, takes his hand and places it in his lap, in his own.

"I haven't finished anything in six months."

It's simple, so simple. The stretch of languid arms placed on a windowsill, and the curve of a back, and a boyish face (a face he easily recognises as his own; he sees himself in it much more than he could in any mirror) tilted upwards into the light.

Into hope.

And Steven feels himself wishing it wasn't so crudely inaccurate. Art is deception (deception coined by people who don't really _know_ ). Or is it the reality we cannot see, or begin to comprehend? What could be, what's meant to be, if we tried.

"She said it was because I couldn't let anyone, anything in."

"She left."

"Yes."

"Do you want me to leave too?"

 _Maybe. Maybe. Maybe I want to leave. Maybe I'm scared._

"I don't want to be afraid."

"Me too."

 

Two months pass and it's fine, it's okay. And then two months of fine turns into one month of denial and then - a lifetime of acceptance.

 

It isn't a question and it isn't an answer. It just happens and that's how it is. Xabi goes to England with him. It's all he can do, all he can do. All he knows he can do, all he knows he can give, and what he knows Steven will accept. What he needs is something else entirely, of course.

 

It's strange. The country's strange and he feels for some weird reason that it, _this_ will haunt him forever. And not in the way Spain haunts him. That's undeniably comforting sometimes. If that goes away, there'll be nothing. (If what you're running from disappears, there'll be no reason to go forward anymore.) This is just - scary. And unavoidable, like a huge block in your path, or a nuclear bomb ticking its time down right under you.

He sits at Steven's kitchen table, and it's foreign, and unnerving, and there's the sense of _this belongs to him, him only; this is what he is and it doesn't belong to me too, like it's always been._ He sits across from and unfolds his arms and rests his hands on the glass surface and risks a, "Steven, you have to eat something."

Reaches across and separates his hands and threads his fingers through one of them. Steven leans across the table and kisses him, not guarded in the slightest, closes his eyes and sighs against his mouth.

Then he starts picking at his breakfast.

Xabi doesn't say anything for a few minutes, until he glances at his watch. Nine o' clock.

"Where's - where's your dad?"

"Work, I think," he says, letting his fork clatter against the plate.

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah, he says he just needs to stop thinking about. Because he can't. Think about it. He said he's thinking about selling the house, you know? Yeah. Too many memories," he ends bitterly.

"Steven...this is affecting him as much as you."

"Yeah? Well, I bloody well hope it is."

 

Xabi will silence him with a kiss and lead him upstairs. And as he presses him against the railing (at a forty-five-degree angle of depression from the huge, fifty-year-old, glass chandelier, dispersing the light, the light coming through the large window panes and turning the usually white (oh so white; it's amazed him since he was a boy: the sheer whiteness of this house) walls yellow) and lets his lips follow his hands down Steven's chest, he almost lets himself believe that it's okay again.

 

Steven's never been in a graveyard, or not like this, anyway. (He remembers being fifteen and hanging out outside one though, with a six pack and a couple guys, the former being better company.) There are so many people, people he's never seen in his life, not even on TV (though they look like they've been - on TV). He feels more exposed and less confident than he's ever been in his life. And he hates it, he does. He hates everything for a second before he feels Xabi's hand squeezing his...and all he can do is squeeze it right back and try, try to shake the feeling and the want, the need to whisper something into his dark hair (his face shadowed and features on edge, like the way something tenses before it crashes) and drag him back to the house where - where he could forget.

Xabi's solid though (despite presumption, despite what he can see), his poise, the way he bites his lip and swallows and the way he fucking breathes. Never falters for a second. This is his way of doing that. The way he stares straight ahead, stubborn as if saying, _You have to do this._

His dad's a couple feet in front, hands hanging at his sides like dead weights and his body tilted ever so slightly, a slight shift in his usually oh so refined stance that it's almost unnoticeable, but Steven notices. He does.

 

They don't say anything for a day and a half. And it's some contortion of peace, the peace they'll strive to accomplish from now on.

 

Xabi will say, "I want to go home."

"Yeah, we will. Tomorrow."

"I— I don't mean back there. I mean—"

A moment passes in which Xabi struggles for the right thing to say, the only time Steven's seen him do this, and then gives up.

"Are you sure?"

A nod.

"Okay, then. We'll go."

 

"We're taking off."

"Already? Where to?"

"Um, Spain. Xabi wants to...you know..." _Whatever they do in Spain._

He nods. A pause and then—

"Do you love him?"

"I—"

"Stevie, I may not have been the best father, but I always knew what was going on."

A smile, a real one. Steven can't help but feel taken aback, because this is the man he has never agreed with on anything for all of his life and it's the first time he feels it, really feels it: the drastic change. He thinks he'll remember this moment always.

"I'll be back."

"Yeah. Yeah. Be safe, okay?"

"Yeah."

"And Stevie?"

"Yeah?"

"I think he's good for you."

He just nods, walks away.

Wonders if it's possible for someone's entire world and everyone in it to change and they remain unaffected.

He'll tell Xabi that he wants him to stay the same forever, because he needs that, a constant. When everything else is meant to be broken. Inevitably. Xabi says he can't promise anything. He'll think that maybe he's already changed, because there was a time when he could make and keep his promises and be sure, absolutely sure.

Maybe Steven is Xabi's reminder that, in the end, we can't determine our own destiny.

And maybe Xabi is Steven's reminder to not be afraid of who you are.

 

Spain is different. It's like the way he closes his eyes and tilts his head onto Xabi's shoulder on the flight, or the way he climbs into a hotel bed and wraps his arms around his waist, burying his face against his neck. The sunlight is like an arm slung over your shoulder or a warm cheek pressed against yours. It's intimate, the country: from the sand that you step on, flowing between your toes to the sky that you can practically taste and breathe in. You can feel everything, anything that you want to. It's there and it's waiting and it's comfort.

They make love on the beach like it's the first time, and Xabi tells him that he never got the chance to see it that way and he saw it as depression and ruin (and something that you strive to leave behind and forget) and it's like something you were robbed of and can't get back. (Like your innocence.)

"Maybe we were born in the wrong place." And Xabi nods, because how else can you explain it?

"Maybe we were born on the wrong planet." He gets a smile at that.

"My dad knows about this, did you know?"

A nod. "I figured as much."

"He— He asked me if I love you."

"And you said..."

"I didn't get the chance."

"But what would you say?"

"I don't know. Am I getting the chance?"

"I don't know."

 

Xabi, Xabi anticipates disappointment; he expects it even, long before there are signs or even when there aren't. He always has; this is who he is. Maybe he thought at first it was being careful; now, he knows it was his way of drawing lines and building walls.

 

 _I don't know if I can._

 

Xabi will take him home and his mother will exclaim in Spanish and kiss them both on the cheek. _Estoy tan feliz de que esten en casa. Justsogladyouarehome._

Steven just sits and smiles, looks at Xabi's interaction with his mother, brothers, his father who arrives halfway into the visit. From the little Spanish he knows, he gathers she's reprimanding him for not calling so she could cook and prepare properly. He interrupts saying, _No, it's fine._ Xabi just blushes and he feels he's seeing him more completely than he ever has.

He takes his hand under the table and thinks it'll be easy to be happy here. Xabi just sinks back into the wood of the chair and of the floor and of the walls and wonders if he can blend back into this, like nothing's changed.

(But he's never really been this and it's never been him. But sitting there, seeing Steven look happier than he ever has, he wishes it was, wishes it is.)

 

"I don't know if I'm going back."

"I thought you'd say that."

"What about you?"

"I made my decision long ago, Steven."

A solemn nod. "I can understand that."

"But it can wait. That— That'll always be there. Maybe next year; I wasn't ready anyway, not really."

"So what do we do?"

"I don't know. We could stay here, maybe...?"

What he thinks and doesn't say is: _I love you and I don't care, I just don't fucking care anymore. Because none of it matters, none of it matters when you can be dead any minute or you can lose the people you care about. The world is fucking cruel and sometimes you need to contradict it; that's the only way of conquering it._

Steven says it for him though. Kisses him under the moonlit sky in Spain. Wonders if it's ever truly dark.

 

Wonders if it'll ever be dark again.

 

 _We can dream and in our dreams, the light never goes out._


End file.
